The scolding came before you even made it through the door.

Utahime stood in the hallway of the Kyoto campus dorms with her arms crossed tightly, her brows already drawn in a sharp crease.

She didn’t even need to say a word yet—her expression alone did all the yelling for her. But she still gave you the full treatment anyway, eyes narrowing the second she saw the state of your jacket.

“You ripped it already?” she snapped, striding toward you like a storm brewing in heels. “Already? I just gave that to you last week!”

The fabric on your sleeve was torn straight down the side, the stitching completely ruined and dust clinging to the cotton.

A loose thread fluttered as you walked, like a visual insult to her generosity.

It had been a surprise gift too. Something she picked out herself after seeing you wear that same ratty hoodie one too many times.

A thick, clean-cut, well-fitted jacket with a soft lining—practical but still sharp-looking. It even had a patch sewn inside the collar that she’d done herself, though she never actually admitted to it. Something subtle. Something hers.

And you wrecked it.

Utahime dragged you inside, muttering under her breath about “reckless brats” and “how hard is it to walk around without getting into fights?” She turned you around by the shoulders and yanked the ruined jacket off your arms with a grumble.

You didn’t resist—not that you had a choice, really. She was efficient, inspecting the tear with clinical precision while continuing to scold you like you were still thirteen.

“This isn’t even a battle tear. Look at this. You caught it on a fence, didn’t you? Or a gate. Something stupid. I swear, you people don’t think.”

She sighed through her nose and walked off into the other room, leaving you behind as she muttered something about always having to fix things.

You stood there, jacketless, wondering if that meant you’d have to find a needle and thread yourself.

But two minutes later, she returned. Brand-new jacket in hand. The exact same model, same color, same soft inner lining—but this one had a tiny tag still clinging to the zipper. She tossed it at your chest with a short, irritated puff of breath.

“There. Replaced. Not because you deserve it, but because I can’t stand looking at that stupid tear.”

She turned away before you could react, walking over to her desk and busying herself with papers like she hadn’t just replaced your jacket in under five minutes.

Her back stayed to you, but the edge in her voice softened as she added, more quietly, “You should try to take care of things that are given to you.”

You saw her hand hover over the corner of her desk, fingers twitching slightly like she wanted to say more—but didn’t.